


A New Addiction

by Robin_Fai



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Quitting, Smoking, Swearing, What is this?, Withdrawal, general Jakes related chaos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:50:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21711043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Fai/pseuds/Robin_Fai
Summary: ...of all the bad choices he had made, this had to be the best.Peter gives up smoking. Inspired by an excellent modern day version of the same by LadyAJ_13, Funny Moment, but it devolved rather quickly.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 12
Kudos: 54





	A New Addiction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyAJ_13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Funny Moment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21596362) by [LadyAJ_13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13). 



> I don't think this can compare to the original but I just had to give it a go seeing what would happen if canon Jakes quit smoking. As usual it went off plan rapidly, and predictably. Ho hum. 
> 
> (I have never smoked by the way so apologies if I'm way off base here.)

It had been three days. Three. Whole. Damn. Days.

Christ but he wanted a smoke. He should never have read that article. Why was he doing this again? 

Oh yes, not wanting to die with his lungs as black as those he had seen on Debryn’s autopsy table last week. The suspicious death that wasn’t. Just a lonely old man with lungs like tar. The doctor had said it was down to smoking. He had laughed it off. He’d heard it all before. It was the pet topic of the moment it seemed, but there were so many other people saying it was fine, good for you even, that he had been disinclined to believe any of it. Debryn had merely raised his eyebrows judgmentally and handed him a journal. 

He’d meant to throw it away. Then he’d got stuck in the old man’s basement, courtesy of a dodgy handle, for several hours until Morse had come to his rescue. There had been absolutely nothing in there but a few chairs, a light, and the journal he had tucked inside his coat. So he had read, and read, and regretted.

The images had stuck with him far longer that the words. Nightmares had chased away all hopes of sleep that night. Early in the morning he had got up, gathered any cigarettes in the house, and then chucked them all away. 

The first light of day had seen him back smoking out the window of his flat, and then cutting the rest of the stash he had recovered from the bin into tiny pieces. He had taken the bin bag out for good measure. 

The following two days had been hell. He had been so thankful they had been his rota days off. He had spent most of the time in bed, suffering not so quietly through what had felt like the worst case of flu he had ever had. Several times he had gone down the street and bought a packet of cigarettes, before changing his mind and getting rid of them. One pack, lobbed forcefully out of the window of his flat, had collided with the head of an unfortunate passer-by. After the abuse he had received screamed at him from the street he had managed to hold out on buying any more.

Morning of the third day had seen him dragging himself from bed to go to work. After so long in the bath that the water had gone cold on him, he had gathered his strength to get dressed. His suit was thick with the smell of smoke. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to breathe it in or burn the thing. 

Everything about the office irritated him. The other officers were loud, dull, and smoked more than he had ever noticed before. The room was far too hot. He began to cough. By lunch he was annoying himself with his own coughing. After the third uniformed officer had made the mistake of approaching his desk, Thursday had sent him out to check on a break in that Morse was attending. He had argued. The last thing he wanted was to deal with Morse of all people on a day like that. The man was insufferable. Beautiful, but insufferable.

The break in was on the far side of town. Twice he pulled over because he felt so bad. Never had the movement of a vehicle felt so traumatic. 

Desperation filled him. He ached for the feel of a cigarette in his hands, the curl of smoke on his tongue. Tremors in his hands tried his patience. He forced his hands deep into horrendously empty pockets.

Morse met him on the street. His eyes narrowed at him and he scowled in return. 

“I don’t know why Thursday sent you. Its a straightforward burglary. No real evidence. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Well that’s got to be a first. You saying something is _straightforward_ ,” he bit at the impossible man. “Go on. Get to the point. What’s the catch.”

“I told you. Its a straightforward case.” Morse shrugged, not rising to his barbs.

He grunted irritably, “fine. I’ll take a look and then perhaps we can get to some more serious work.”

He trailed into the house, casually looking around as he went. The glass in the door was broken from the outside, but otherwise there were no obvious signs of anything untoward. There were a few open drawers. Marks where items had been removed from spots they had long occupied spoke to the loot removed from the property. As Morse had said there was nothing to go on.

Pain radiated from his temples to his eyes. He kept his hands in tight fists in his pockets to still their constant buzzing. He stopped in the front room and closed his eyes against the light and questioned his dubious life choices. Why the hell had he done this? He _needed_ a bloody cigarette. Now.

“I can do my job you know.” A petulant voice cut through his reverie.

“What?”

“I don’t _always_ make something of nothing. Thursday didn’t need to send you to check up on me.” 

“You could read murder in a fucking sneeze.” He rubbed at his forehead, refusing to turn around to meet Morse’s gaze.

“Do you always have to be so miserable?” 

“You can bloody talk!” He was almost shouting by now. He turned around to see Morse scowling at him. Christ but the man was difficult.

“Oh, right, so just because you can smarm around and suck up to the right people when needed, you think no one notices how vile you can be?!” Morse gestured in a fractious manner.

“SMARM?! Did you _seriously_ just accuse me of sucking up?!” He found himself stepping up to Morse aggressively. His hands were now out of his pockets, but still firmly formed into fists. Morse visibly deflated. He almost looked scared.

Peter’s facade of self-confident control was so effective, so rarely disturbed, that shouting at a junior officer was utterly out of character. He was more at ease dishing out cutting insults. His hands shook. Morse stepped back instinctively and collided with the wall. 

“Jakes, what the hell is wrong with you today?” His tone was still quarrelsome, but quieter, concerned. Peter misread it as pity.

“What is _wrong_ with me? What is wrong with _me_?! What is wrong with YOU?” He stepped up to Morse, emphasising his words with a sharp jab of the finger to Morse’s chest. The man’s expression became one of fear. He seemed to try and shrink closer to the wall behind him. The look was like a bucket of ice cold water to his system. “Shit.” He dug in his pocket for a cigarette, before promptly remembering he had quit. Morse’s eyes tracked the action. “Shit,” he swore again, and stared down at his shoes.

“Jakes, seriously, are you OK?” There was concern in Morse’s voice. They were so close his breath tickled his burning face.

“I’m...” He exhaled slowly and tried to regain control. “I’m sorry, Morse. I… haven’t had a cigarette in three days, and its… its just shit really. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” He looked up and met Morse’s vivid blue gaze. He was suddenly acutely aware of how close they were. Their faces were so near they almost touched. His breath caught in his throat.

“Oh.” That simple word, a breath, an apology, was a strange kind of catalyst. Before he knew what he was doing he had closed that gap and pressed his lips against Morse’s. The touch was like a kind of electricity. For the first time in three days he felt like he could breath. 

He was kissing Morse. _What was he doing?_ Quickly he pulled back. He opened his mouth to try and make some kind of excuse, but then, before he could, Morse’s hands found his face and he kissed him, hard. The action caught him unprepared. He leaned in to him, pressed his body against Morse. One hand found the other man’s waist, and the other his hair. He wound his fingers through those soft waves. Heat filled his body, a different kind of heat to the stifling warmth he had felt for the last few days, this was rich and divine. He wanted to feel this way forever. 

At last they broke away from each other and caught their breath. His face coloured with embarrassment as he realised he had the other man pinned against the wall. He cleared his throat and self-consciously disentangled himself from Morse. 

Stepping away, he looked down at his shoes and shoved his hands back in his pockets. They no longer shook. He dared a glance at Morse. He was staring at him intently, his hair a tousled mess. His hands itched to smooth over those curls, set them back in place, feel their softness again.

Morse smiled and looked at his shoes. “They say its easy to quit one habit if you replace it with another.” He remarked with a smirk.

“What exactly are you suggesting,” he asked. His throat was raw from coughing and his voice was rough with emotion. What _was_ he saying. Morse smiled at him. Was the man _flirting?!_

“I could think of a new addiction for you.” Morse’s reply was soft, almost coy. _Fuck._ He really was flirting. He felt his face flush, hot, and red. 

“What??” He was completely nonplussed. His brain couldn’t accept it. Morse was flirting. With him. Flirting.

“Perhaps I should make it simpler.” Morse stepped up close to him. “Every time you’re desperate for a cigarette, think of this instead-” and then Morse’s mouth was on his again, his arms around his body, and he was lost…

If this was what it took to forget about smoking he could live with it. He would happily swap the tang of smoke for the sweetness of this kiss any day. He responded eagerly, until there was nothing but him and his new addiction; Morse.

**Author's Note:**

> I... I have no excuses. In the absence of nicotine patches, tabs, e-cigs etc. I was really at a loss for how on earth Peter Jakes would manage to quit. Morse, naturally, had his own unorthodox opinion.


End file.
